A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Aragorn looked very strange to Michael, black-clad, gun dangling from his belt, hair mussed and face streaked with dirt and dried sweat, carefully examining Gimli's broad hairy chest with deft professional fingers. It was the juxtaposition, Michael decided – Death and Life – Violence and Mercy – why did they always seem to walk hand-in-hand with this weird group? He supposed it had something to do with their closeness to the Valar. Pity and Justice seemed to permeate everything those demigods did; it would be impossible to spend so much time around them, and not soak at least a little of it up. So all things considered, perhaps Aragorn DIDN'T look so odd. Or maybe it was just the scotch.

He yawned widely, horribly, hiding it behind a dirty and blood-crusted hand. He was so, so tired …. No sleep at all the night before; adrenaline-rush and piercing grief, followed up by a long car trip and a warm room; was it any wonder he was tired? And Gandalf, pushing scotch on him – that hadn't helped, either. That had been, in fact, the first thing Gandalf had said when he and Pippin had helped the groaning Faramir through the gate at Trinity in the early morning sunlight; even scrutinized by the porter, who watched them narrowly, Gandalf had limped out on his crutches, his foot swathed in white plaster and strappings, dark eyes anxious. "Scotch," he'd said, definitively and authoritatively. "Scotch is called for, I think." Then those bright black eyes flicking irritably to the porter, who stood frozen in indecision. "Don't stand there like a blithering idiot, man," Gandalf had said, whacking him in the knee with a crutch and making the porter yelp with pain and surprise. "Shut the damn gate and get back to your post."

"Yes, Professor White," the porter had grunted, and Michael and Pippin continued up the walk with their patient limping painfully along between them; fortunately for Faramir, Gandalf's movements were just as impeded by his foot and crutches, and he swore to himself as he jerked himself along.

"Completely buggered up – idiots – can't for the life of me – absolutely no sense of decorum – however." They were all panting for breath after they crossed the cool grassy quadrangle, very aware of the surprised stares from passing gowned students, and when Gandalf opened his office door, a thick oak door set in heavy stone walls, they hustled into the warm private darkness of his quarters with relief. Gandalf told Pippin – calling him "You miserable Took," much to Faramir and Pippin's amusement – what a fool he'd been, how lucky he was Michael was around to fix up his messes, to put Faramir down on the couch, GENTLY DAMN YOU! when Faramir grunted with pain, and then out came the scotch. Pippin had looked hopeful, but Gandalf had given him nothing but a dark look; the glass he'd held out had been to Michael. Michael had stared at it, wondering why he should make liquor the Breakfast of Champions.

"Take it," Gandalf had insisted, thrusting the glass at him. "Trust me, dear fellow, not only do you deserve it, you desperately need it."

Remembering the Painkillers, Michael had complied, drinking down the hot harshness as quickly as possible and thinking that Gandalf was better at Self-Medicating than he'd thought. He'd turned to Faramir then, asked a question, something innocuous and random, and when he looked back down at his glass it was full again of the sparkling amber liquid.

"There's a good fellow," Gandalf had said, smiling through his beard at him, like a grandfather giving him some warm milk. "Drink it up." So Michael had drunk the second glass as well, and sat beside Faramir to await everyone else.

Gandalf's foot was broken – "Bloody inconvenience," he'd muttered discontentedly. "Damn those blasted Valar, interfering in this fashion" – and he sat in a shabby armchair by the fire, the plaster cast propped up on a footstool, a glass of scotch in one wrinkled, tobacco-stained hand. Michael tried a couple of times to get Gandalf to tell them how he'd broken his foot, but the look Gandalf gave them all was so full of disgusted irritability that he gave up. So he and Pippin exchanged Significant Glances and desultory comments, tried to make Faramir comfortable, and waited.

They didn't have long to wait. Soon afterwards they could hear the porter's indignant expostulations – "No wimmin allowed 'ere – an' not dressed so improper neither – " but despite his efforts Arwen, Éowyn, and Lottie burst in, legs and breasts and high heels and bustiers and mascara odd contrasts with the bookshelves and mellow wood and firelight of Professor White's quarters. They obviously needed no explanations, because the first thing they did was swarm all over Michael and congratulate him, their lilting, lyrical voices chattering and ringing over the sounds of the porter indignantly slamming the door behind them. Michael was kissed and hugged and squeezed and praised until his head spun – or perhaps that was the scotch; it was very difficult to tell, and Gandalf had given him a third one – or was it his fourth? – and Éowyn in particular seemed very pleased with the work he'd done. She spoke at length about his Inner Strength and Desperate Courage and Firmness of Conviction until Michael blushed and wished she didn't think QUITE so highly of him. But when he glanced at Faramir and saw the pride in his face, he didn't feel nearly so bad. Then again, he reminded himself, it might just be the scotch after all.

"Aragorn'll be pissed," Arwen had said, flipping her shining black hair behind one bare shoulder. She was standing at the fire, rubbing her hands, which were blue with cold. Those outfits they were wearing were stunning, Michael thought, but they certainly didn't cover much. Then again, hadn't that been the point – to so kerflummox the remaining operatives with their feminine charms that assassination would be effortless? Juxtaposition again, Michael mused, sipping at his hot amber drink.

"Let him be pissed," Éowyn had shrugged, giving her ex-husband a sly wink. "Take him down a few notches – serves him right." Faramir had tried to laugh, but then began to cough again, deep tearing coughs, spitting dark thick blood, and then all their focus was on him, and Michael could breathe again, relieved to no longer be the center of attention. It was much more Comfortable taking care of Faramir anyway.

Not a half hour later Aragorn and Éomer had entered, supporting Gimli between them. He was soaked, disheveled, and also wheezing and spitting blood and foam, but, thought Michael, at least the river water had washed all the blood off; he thought that was good – good, that is, until Michael actually smelled him. Gandalf saw Michael wrinkle his nose in distaste and laughed. "The Thames isn't known for its pristine clarity," he'd said, refilling Michael's glass. Hoping the scotch would numb his sense of smell, Michael had taken a huge gulp of it, and it burned all the way down.

Éomer was just as vocal in his praise of Michael's deeds as his sister had been, and Aragorn regarded him with a combination of peevish discontent and thinly disguised admiration. "Great job!" Éomer had boomed, clapping Michael hard on the shoulder. "What a great shot! Wow! Did you see that, Longshanks? Perfect!" To Michael's (and his shoulder's) relief Lottie intervened, launching herself at her husband to give a précis of the three remaining operatives' fate. By that time the scotch had dissolved the part of Michael's brain that seemed to govern his reactions … he listened indifferently to the trio's tale of enticement, baiting traps and slitting throats, feeling only a vague sense of relief that at least THOSE operatives had been dealt with properly. He sat beside Faramir, holding his scotch glass in his dirty fingers, humming contentedly to himself in the warm crowded room, watching Aragorn do his Dr. Walker Thing and poke and prod the Wounded Ones.

"Probably take you two to three weeks to heal properly," Aragorn said, coolly professional, examining the bullet wounds and listening to Gimli cough and choke up phlegm and blood. "Better take a bath, though. And Faramir, you need clean clothes too." He glanced over at Pippin, who rolled his eyes, jammed his cap back on, and turned to the door.

"Right you are, Strider," he said, digging his car keys out of his pocket. "Shall I bring Legs and Gimli's girlfriend back with me?"

"Thank you; yes, that would be splendid, Peregrin," Gandalf said, polite but firm; Pippin winked at Michael and slammed the heavy door behind him.

All around Michael people were talking, high excited voices, triumphant, celebratory, laughing; there was Éomer, big burly hairy Éomer, with Lottie in pink sequins tucked in the brawny circle of one arm; there was Arwen, flawless, laughing at something Gandalf had said, sitting on the arm of his chair and swinging her legs in their high heels over the smooth wood floor. There were Aragorn and his patients, blood-splattered, speaking quietly together, but wrapped in their own exultant merriment, subdued but happy; and there was Éowyn, standing a little apart, chin raised, silver eyes fixed on the ceiling; her mouth was curved into an absent smile, and through the noise and the heat and the scotch Michael thought he could hear a woman's voice echoing through Éowyn's head: Well done, Shieldmaiden. Then she laughed, a brassy shout, and ran her long slender fingers through the mass of golden curls around her face.

It might have been minutes – or even an hour – Michael couldn't tell; he was on his, was it fifth or sixth glass of scotch? Well, it didn't matter – when the door banged open, and Doris stumbled, sobbing and hysterical into the room. Éowyn caught her, gave her a quick hug, and then propelled her toward Gimli. Michael wasn't exactly sure, but he thought perhaps Éowyn had slowed her down a little so that she wouldn't hurt Gimli by launching herself at him like that. It would be something Éowyn would think to do, after all. And then, behind Doris, shining, beaming, flinging long lean arms wide, laughing and shaking his lustrous pale hair back, cerulean eyes sparkling with merriment, came Legolas – whipcord-strong, big boots stomping, big voice calling out loudly to everyone in the room, looking around – LOOKING; it took Michael a second to realize why that puzzled him, and behind his scotchy haze he felt a lazy flicker of satisfaction – and congratulating everyone there on a Job Well Done. He curled one arm round his wife's slim waist and kissed her soundly, crowed happily to Gimli who was hoarsely congratulating him on regaining his eyesight, commiserated with Gandalf over the heads of everyone else about being "taken out of the picture," and then turned the full force of his gaze and personality upon Michael. That flawless pale face, framed with pale curtains of glossy hair, those delicious pink lips spread into a grin so wide his dimples had dimples – Michael looked at him in mild surprise, puzzled by his lack of reaction. This was LEGOLAS after all – Legolas, for whom Michael had carried a not-so-secret torch all these months; Legolas, whose presence made Michael's skin tingle, whose smile made his heart flip, whose bronzed torso had so delighted him in the BVI. Was it the scotch softening his reaction to Legolas' beauty? He glanced at his lover, who was smiling absently at him, and THAT was when he felt it – a heavy, limb-weakening ker-flump somewhere above the solar plexus. Beneath his liquor-induced haze Michael felt a vague sense of loss, though it was tempered by a keen sense of Faramir's comforting presence.

Legolas' eyes widened a little, and the dazzling grin that split his face intensified; a brilliant bluish light kindled in his lovely eyes and he gave a sudden laugh. He abruptly brushed the delighted and surprised reactions of his compatriots aside and leapt at Michael. Poor Michael, fuzzed with scotch and fatigue and a trifle overheated, simply sat in stunned amazement as Legolas planted one powerful knee on either side of Michael's lap, took Michael's clammy face between his long thin hands, grinned impudently down at him, aquamarine eyes bright and focused and terribly knowing, then planted a long, passionate, sloppy kiss right on Michael's lips.

Beneath Faramir's weak protestations, and the whistles and wolf-calls from everyone else, Michael's only thought was that it was a pity that he had received his One and Only Kiss from Legolas, and had been so liquored-up he hadn't felt a damn thing.

***********************************

Another train, but this time, no slow, dirty cattle-cars at night for them – Legolas and Éowyn drove Michael and Faramir to the Portsmouth ferry, handed the porters the tickets and luggage, and helped Michael aboard with Faramir's wheelchair. "Not to worry," Legolas said to Michael, who was feeling a trifle delicate after recovering from Gandalf's scotch the previous day. "Pick up the train at Dover, give the garcon yer tickets, and he'll direct yer where yer need to go. Faramir here speaks French well enough – you'll do fine." Then Éowyn kissed them both, Legolas grinned at them, and Michael watched the two of them walk back down the hallway, two long slender gold-capped people, their arms entwined, talking and laughing together. That rather signified to Michael that it was Really Over … the Last Man had died, and they were free to go; Legolas no longer had any use for them. He watched them vanish out the doorway with an odd feeling of mingled regret and relief. Faramir had smiled after them, then sighed and rested his head against the back of his seat; he was still horribly pale, and was eliciting many kind and solicitous looks and comments from the people around them. One French woman, thin and tan and wrinkled with dyed red hair, gave Faramir a pitying look with her large, dark, heavily-made-up eyes and said to her friend, "Ah, vois-toi le pauvre gars? Regardes son visage; c'est trés pale … Il doit être très malade." Michael wasn't sure what it had meant, but it sounded very nice, and he smiled hesitantly at her; she smiled back around her thin cigarette, and gave him a friendly look. Michael's hangover receded slightly after that.

Dover, then Paris, then the TGV to Lyon where they stayed the night in a quaint bed-and-breakfast, negotiating the narrow staircase with difficulty; their hosts were delightfully helpful, however, and very solicitous, stowing Faramir's wheelchair under the stairs, carrying up their suitcases and making little sympathetic tutting noises. Faramir had a terrible night, coughing and spitting up mucous and small chunks of his lungs; at one point, during a particularly nasty jag, he gagged and spit out a bit of bullet – twisted and flared – that cut his throat and tongue on its way up. Michael mopped up the blood as best he could, reflecting to himself as Faramir convulsed and groaned that the past six months had changed him in ways he'd never thought possible … could he really be the same man who had fainted when one of his co-workers got a nose bleed? Impossible … and then Michael heard Tulkas chuckling in his head again; overlaid with that was a vaguely familiar male voice whispering, "Ah, our Dreamer has indeed grown; he is become strong … " A chill went through him as he realized it was the voice of Ossë. But later, when he did manage to sleep a little in the early hours of the morning, while Faramir dozed fitfully, pale and hollow-eyed, Michael did not see or hear Ossë in his dreams at all, and wondered if he had only imagined it was he.

The next morning, though it dawned luminous and yellow-pink with the lightest cool breaths of wind stirring the white lace curtains of their room, found Faramir far too weak to travel. It was as though all the bright promise of the new day had been for nothing; the late night and horrible racking coughs had taken their toll on him, and he shivered with exhaustion, his skin pasty gray and his eyes sunken. Michael tamped down the sudden surge of panic by remembering that Faramir COULDN’T die, that he WOULD recover, and padded in his bare feet down the chilly dark hall in search of their hosts. He found them in the back kitchen, brewing coffee and whipping eggs for omelettes; sadly Michael's education had not included any French (his father had insisted he take his obligatory two years of Spanish, though all he could remember was "Su madre usa botas de combates," which didn't help much in any situation), and it was with great difficulty he managed to convey to them that "mon ami" (he remembered that from a TV ad) was not well, and with concerned expressions the husband and wife followed him up to their room.

After a rasping whispered consultation with their anxious hosts, Faramir, amidst hoarse throaty coughs, told Michael he had arranged to stay an extra day, and that he and Michael would take a later train to Nice. The landlords, he said, would warn the Hôtel Negresco and their rooms would be reserved for at least a week in their names. So Michael sat by Faramir's side while he dozed, holding the strong brown hand, so limp and weak in his own little white fingers; while he watched the sun move slowly round their cozy little room, touching here and there a vase, or a chair, or an embroidered pillow, he caught himself wondering how they had come to this – how his Alpha had been laid so low, and he so strangely exalted. This time, however, Tulkas did not respond.

One o'clock came and went, and Michael's stomach began to growl. He was somewhat relieved when Faramir awoke, feeling recovered enough to assert a little authority; he insisted Michael leave to find sustenance, and obediently Michael left, wandering down Lyon's twisting narrow streets at lunchtime in search of a promising café. He chose one, based on the fact that he overheard one of the waiters speaking in broken but adequate English to a couple of other tourists, and after he was seated picked up the long plastic-coated menu with an apprehensive sigh. After puzzling for a moment over what the difference was between "Menu 80ff" and "Menu 110ff" he decided to try the "loup," which was apparently a kind of fish, and a "demi-bouteille" of dry white wine. The bottle of water they brought at his request startled him – how could he have known that the question "Gaz ou sans gaz?" referred to whether or not the water were carbonated? – but the salad was good, the fish excellent, the pasta inspired, and the dessert very light. He decided against a digestif, thinking with anxious unease of Faramir alone so long – WHY did it take three hours to lunch in France? – and after paying the bill and, he was certain, naively over-tipping the unctuous waiter, he hurried back to his room.

The landlady said something to him as he came in, which he missed entirely; however, since she was smiling, he figured it couldn't be too bad, so he just said, "Merci beaucoup" – he was positive he saw her wince at his accent – and vaulted the stairs two at a time. He paused at the door, not wanting to burst in noisily and disturb Faramir were he sleeping; as he stood hesitantly with his hand on the knob he was surprised to hear a woman's voice. Frowning a little, and wondering if that was what the landlady had attempted to tell him when he saw her, he softly opened the door and stepped inside.

The little room was dim in the afternoon shadows, save for a small glass lamp on the side table by the bed that let off warm yellow light. Faramir was sitting up a little on his pillows, his blue nightshirt creased and his eyes drooping and tired, but he was smiling at his guest. She was a stoutish, short dark-haired woman, with snapping black eyes and a handsome face, dressed in a trim blue suit; she sat on the edge of their bed, and she was laughing. She turned and looked at Michael over her shoulder when he came in, and her already cheerful face broke into a delighted grin.

"Ah, enfin!" she exclaimed, rising and approaching Michael with arms outstretched. He tensed, unsure of what to expect, and was vaguely surprised when she grasped him firmly by the shoulders with strong small hands and kissed him soundly on each cheek. "The Dreamer, yes, of course! Ah, Faramir," she added, turning and wagging a teasing finger at Michael's lover, her face sly. "Tu n'm'pas a dit q'il etait si beau!"

Faramir smiled weakly, but managed to give Michael a sly wink. "Call me a sucker for a pretty face," he said; his voice was still a little hoarse, but not nearly so raspy as it had been. Michael flushed; he was at once pleased and embarrassed, and a little relieved that Faramir seemed to have recovered enough to attain a passing semblance to his former state of ardor. He gave the woman a hesitant smile, and she beamed up at him, showing all her strong white teeth.

"I am Diamante," she said; "Diamond, you know."

"Pippin's wife," interjected Faramir, and stifled a small cough.

"Oh!" said Michael, a little surprised. He hadn't expected Pippin the Cabbie to be married, much less to this sophisticated Frenchwoman. He wondered if she were one of the Chosen, too; it was so hard to tell with what Gandalf had called "the Hobbits." Frodo had been a "Hobbit" too, and although he was a tad short, he'd LOOKED fairly normal. He supposed he was just going to have to label her Possibly Not Human and leave it at that.

"I have come," she said expansively, beaming down at Faramir, "to see to our poor capitaine -- and to give him of course the best chocolat from the best chocolatier in Lyon." She gestured to a large bronze box, topped with an amazing mass of ribbons and silk flowers, resting precariously on the bedside table. "It is very good, our chocolat," she said with an expression of superior complacency. "You eat it careful, yes? Not comme çi comme ça, it is too good for that. You eat it as a Frenchman eats, not like the English, mon dieu! You see Legolas, le petit cochon, the pig, who gobbles it right up. No," she said, lifting her pointed little chin and looking down her nose at Michael. "You are not like that, you have des gôutes Française, I am sure of it."

"Um," said Michael, not sure how to respond to this. He gave Faramir a puzzled look, and Faramir chuckled weakly.

"Don't worry, Diamond," he said, his voice still raspy and low; he gave Michael a soft look from beneath his dark lashes, and Michael's heart turned over. "Michael has excellent taste."

"C'est evident," snorted Diamond, picking up a small handbook and bending over to give Faramir two brusque kisses. "Bisou-bisou, Faramir, we visit you in Monte Carlo, yes? At the green felt, yes?" She straightened and smoothed out her trim dark suit.

"I haven't played the tables in years," protested Faramir with a weak laugh. Diamond snorted and turned away.

"L'amour, c'est t'a fait faible," she said indignantly. "I tell you, at the green felt, Peregrin and I. Bon soir, Little Dreamer," she added to Michael, patting him firmly on the cheek and smiling up at him. "Au revoir."

"Um … bye," said Michael, feeling as though he had gone into the wrong classroom, and wishing he'd studied French instead of Spanish in high school. When the door closed behind him he turned and, putting his hands on his hips, regarded his lover, who returned his look with artful innocence. Michael stifled a grin, and decided Faramir was just recovered enough to withstand a little teasing.

"Just wanted to get me out of the way, didn't you?" asked Michael archly, fluttering his lashes. "Thought you'd have your wicked way with DIAMANTE, didn't you?" He rolled his eyes and swiveled his hips, and Faramir laughed so hard it triggered another coughing fit. Horrified with himself and full of remorse, Michael spent the next half hour rubbing Faramir's back and apologizing. Far from being offended, however, Faramir thought it very funny, sniggering now and again to himself, and seemed in such good humor by the time their landlady came up with soup and sandwiches that she spoke enthusiastically and extensively to him, congratulating him on his imminent recovery. And even after he had settled down for the night, nestled comfortably in piles of pillows with Michael stretched out beside him stroking his forehead, he chuckled now and again and muttered sleepily to himself: "Diamante … " At last with a final shake of his head, he drifted off.

Michael slept then, full of warm food and hopeful sentiment, drifting from place to place in his mental theater with the random airiness of a butterfly. Here and there he saw a familiar face – Doris, beaming, watching Gimli in a yamika; Gandalf delivering a lecture to a room full of serious-faced young people; Frodo, trading in Faramir's Lexus on a Land Rover. And the landscapes rolled by too – the docks in Miami; the heaving glossy ocean at night, throwing back the light of the stars, and the running lights on the boat; the pungent pine forest in the hills of Arizona. Now and again he saw a flash of light, like and explosion or the flare of gunfire; now and again darkness descended, warm and quiet and restful. He fluttered and dipped, touching each memory briefly, unconcerned, exhausted and wanting only to rest.

And then he shifted, looked over his shoulder, and in the pale blue light saw Oropher and Gil-Galad seated at a ghostly table, laughing and raising shimmering goblets in salute. "To the Dreamer!" cried Oropher, and Gil-Galad touched the rim of his goblet to Oropher's. "The Dreamer!" he agreed, and they both drank deeply. Smiling, Michael turned away from them and began to run. He looked over his shoulder and saw Faramir running behind him, smiling, healthy and full of life; Michael laughed and yelled, "Run with me, Faramir!" Then, arms pumping and legs churning, he ran and ran and ran – heedless of Faramir's cries to stop, to let him catch up; Michael ran until the darkness faded and the light completely surrounded him; he ran alone, but for some reason he did not even care.